Uniform Justice

  father and son, who were facing one another. And as he watched he saw

  Paolo, who had his father's complete attention, close his right eye in

  a single wink of triumphant, sly satisfaction. In the same instant,

  the father's right hand came up and gave the boy an approving punch on

  the right biceps.

  Vianello hadn't seen it; he had been facing away from that millisecond

  of comp licit understanding between father and son. Brunetti turned

  towards the door and passed in front of a silent Donatini. In the

  hall, he waited until Vianello emerged, followed by the two Filippis

  and their lawyer.

  Brunetti closed the door of the interrogation room, moving slowly to

  give himself time to think.

  Donatini spoke first. "It's your decision, Commissario, about what to

  do with this information." Brunetti was entirely unresponsive, didn't

  even bother to acknowledge that the lawyer had spoken.

  In the face of Brunetti's silence, the Maggiore spoke. "It might be

  better if that dead boy's family were left with the memory of him that

  they have," he said solemnly, and Brunetti was shamed to realize that,

  had he not seen the momentary flash of triumph between him and his son,

  he would have been moved by the man's concern for Ernesto's family. He

  was swept by a desire to strike the man across the mouth but instead

  turned away from all of them and started

  down the corridor. From behind him, the boy called out, "Do you want

  me to sign anything?" and then a moment later, intentionally delayed,

  "Commissario?"

  Brunetti kept walking, ignoring them all, bent on getting back to his

  office, like an animal that has to return to its cave in order to feel

  safe from its enemies. He closed the door behind him, knowing that

  Vianello, however confused by his superior's behaviour, would leave him

  alone until called.

  "Check and mate and game at an end he said aloud, so much the victim of

  the energy surging in him that he could not move. Clenching his hands

  and closing his eyes didn't help at all: he was left with the image of

  that wink, that sustaining punch. Even if Vianello had seen it, he

  realized, it would make no difference for them, nor for Moro. Filippi's

  story was credible, the entire performance perfectly pitched. He

  cringed at the memory of how he had been moved by the boy's

  embarrassment, how he had superimposed upon his halting account what he

  imagined would be his own son's response in the same circumstances and

  seen fear and remorse where there had been only low cunning.

  Part of him longed to hear Vianello's voice at the door so that he

  could tell him how they had been duped. But there would be no purpose,

  he realized, and so he was glad that the Inspector stayed away. His

  own rashness in going off to talk to Cappellini had given the Filippis

  time to concoct their story; not just to concoct it but to work on it

  and to put into it all of the ingredients that were sure to appeal to

  the sentimentalism of anyone who heard it. What cliche did they leave

  untouched? Boys will be boys. My shame is greater than my guilt. Oh,

  spare from further pain the suffering mother of the lad.

  Brunetti turned and kicked the door, but the noise and the jolt of pain

  in his back changed nothing. He confronted the fact that anything he

  did would have the same effect: nothing would change, regardless of how

  much pain was endured.

  He looked at his watch and saw that he'd lost all track of tone while

  questioning the boy, though the darkness outside should have told him

  how late it was. He'd given no orders but there was certainly no

  reason to hold FilipVaTvSnello must surely have let him go. He wanted

  desperately not to see any of them when he left, so he forced hfrnse f

  to s and there eyes closed and head leaning back against the door for

  another five minutes, and then he went downstairs

  could Tee "Tde Wm r id ^ ffiCerS' r 0m' thought he could see light

  coming from the door as he went silently outside he turned to the right

  -d ^ St.

  presenTed h I" VaP rett SUdd6 my ^^the ^action presented by the many

  people on board at this hour

  One was just pulling away as he arrived at the imbarcadero

  ;:0a:iewwhaited forHthe next he had ten Az

  people who arrived, most of them Venetian by the look of them. When it

  came, he boarded the boat, crossed to the far sule and stood at the

  rail, back turned to the g'ryo the city When at last he arrived at the

  door to his apartment he paused, hoping that some remnant of humanity

  wAd' be

  Pao "8H r I" inSide' ^ if ^ ^ he ^ a son liS creatd hinT, HPmSe *,*? ^

  *** Without having *** aparLent **"** ** *** *"* let hims^ ^ the

  1 will not buy you a telefomno because they create a race of spineless

  weaklings; it would make you even more

  rejoTedt thl^H ^ ^ ** ^ ^oTa -yTnd

  S^S^S*8 ng Ur ^ ^^ She *" her

  Her voice came from the direction of the kitchen but

  HTkn'wTat inStead' dr ^ hall to--dkolaSud; He knew that years of lying

  awake for the sound of the footsteps of returning children would alert

  her to ^arrival

  S Shee did" d dUb rat t WOULD S n -- -AnA ' She did, and they talked.

  Rather, he talked and she

  listened. After a long time, when he had explained everything and

  named the choices open to him, he asked, "Well?"

  The dead can't suffer," was all she said, an answer that confused him

  at first.

  Familiar with her habits of thought, he considered the remark for some

  time and finally asked, "And the living can?"

  She nodded.

  "Filippi and his father he said, then added, 'who should. And Moro and

  his wife

  "And daughter, and mother Paola added, 'who shouldn't."

  "Is this a contest of numbers?" he asked soberly.

  She flicked this away with a quick motion of her hand. "No, no, not at

  all. But I think it matters, not only because of the number of people

  who will be affected but for the amount of good it would do

  "Neither choice will do anyone any good he insisted.

  Then which will do less harm?"

  "He's dead Brunetti said, 'no matter what the official verdict is."

  This isn't about the official verdict, Guido

  Then what is it about?"

  "It's about what you tell them The way she spoke, she made it sound

  self-evident. He had shied away from accepting that, had almost

  succeeded in preventing himself from thinking about it, yet the instant

  the words fell from her lips, he realized that it was the only thing

  any of this was about.

  "You mean what Filippi did?"

  "A man has the right to know who killed his child

  "You make that sound so simple. Like something from the Bible."

  "It's not in the Bible, to the best of my knowledge. But it is simple.

  And true Her tone was a stranger to uncertainty.

  "And what if he does something about it?"

  "Like what? Kill Filippi? Or his father?"

  Brunetti nodded.

  "From what I know of him and what you've said, I doubt that he's the

  kind of man who would do something like that."
Before he could say

  that one never knew, she said, "But you never know, do you?"

  Once again, Brunetti had the strange sensation of being adrift in time.

  He looked at his watch and was stunned to see that it was almost ten.

  "Have the kids eaten?"

  "I sent them out to get a pizza when I heard you come in."

  He had gradually, as he told her the story of his meeting with the

  Filippis and their lawyer, sunk lower and lower on the sofa until he

  was now lying with his head on a pillow. "I think I'm hungry he

  said.

  "Yes/ Paola agreed. The, too. Stay here for a while and I'll make

  some pasta." She got to her feet and went to the door. "What will you

  do?" she asked.

  Till have to speak to him Brunetti said.

  He did so the next day, at four in the afternoon, a time chosen by

  Dottor Moro, who had insisted on coming to the Questura rather than

  have Brunetti come to his home. The doctor was on time to the minute,

  and Brunetti stood up when a uniformed officer ushered him into his

  office. Brunetti came around his desk and extended his hand. They

  exchanged strained courtesies and then, as soon as he was seated, Moro

  asked, "What is it you want, Commissario?" His voice was level and

  calm, devoid of curiosity or, for that fact, interest. Events had

  washed him clean of such things.

  Brunetti, who had retreated behind his desk more out of habit than

  choice, began by saying, There are some things I think you should know,

  Dottore." He paused, waiting for the doctor to respond, perhaps with

  sarcasm, perhaps with anger. But Moro said nothing.

  "There are certain facts regarding the death of your son that

  I think..." Brunetti began, then flailed to a stop. He looked at the

  wall behind Moro's head, then began again. That is, I've learned some

  things and want you to know them."

  "Why?"

  "Because they might help you decide."

  "Decide what?" Moro asked tiredly.

  "How to proceed."

  Moro shifted to one side in the chair and crossed his legs. "I have no

  idea what you're talking about, Commissario. I don't think there are

  any decisions I can make, not now."

  "About your son, I think."

  Brunetti saw something flash into Moro's eyes.

  "No decision can affect my son," he said, making no attempt to disguise

  his anger. And then, to hammer the message home, he added, "He's

  dead."

  Brunetti felt the moral heat of what Moro had just said sweep over him.

  Again, he looked away, then back at the doctor, and again he spoke.

  I've come into the possession of new information, and I think you

  should be aware of what it is." Without giving Moro a chance to

  comment, he went on. "Paolo Filippi, who is a student at the Academy,

  maintains that your son died by accident and that, to avoid

  embarrassment for him, and for you, he arranged it to look like

  suicide."

  Brunetti waited for Moro to ask if that would not also be an

  embarrassment, but Instead the doctor said, "Nothing my boy did would

  embarrass me."

  "He maintains your son died as the result of homosexual activity."

  Brunetti waited for the other man to respond.

  "Even though I'm a doctor Moro said, "I have no idea of what that can

  mean."

  That your son died in an attempt to increase his sexual excitement by

  near-strangulation."

  "Autoerotic asphyxiation Moro said with clinical detachment.

  Brunetti nodded.

  "Why should that embarrass me?" the doctor said calmly.

  After a long silence, Brunetti realized that Moro was not going to

  prompt him, so he said, "I don't think what he told me is true. I

  think he killed your son because his father had persuaded him that

  Ernesto was a spy or a traitor of some sort. It was his influence,

  perhaps even his encouragement, that led the boy to do what he did."

  Still Moro said nothing, though his eyes had widened in surprise.

  In the face of the other man's silence, the best Brunetti could do was

  say, "I wanted you to know what story Filippi will give if we pursue

  the case."

  "And what is this decision you've called me in here to make,

  Commissario?"

  "Whether you want us to bring a charge of involuntary manslaughter

  against Filippi."

  Moro studied Brunetti's face for some time before he said, "If you

  think he killed Ernesto, Commissario, then involuntary manslaughter is

  not much of a charge, is it?" Before Brunetti could reply, Moro added,

  "Besides, this should be your decision, Commissario. Not mine." His

  voice was as cool as his expression.

  "I wanted to give you the choice," Brunetti said in what he thought was

  a calm voice.

  "So you wouldn't have to decide?"

  Brunetti bowed his head but turned the motion into a nod. "In part,

  yes, but it's also for you and your family."

  To spare us embarrassment?" Moro asked with heavy emphasis on the last

  word.

  "No/ Brunetti asked, worn down by Moro's contempt. To spare you

  danger."

  "What danger?" Moro asked, as though he were really curious.

  The danger that would come to all of you if this went to trial."

  "I don't understand."

  "Because the report you suppressed would have to be produced as

  evidence, or at least you would have to testify as to its existence and

  contents. To justify Filippi's behaviour and his father's anger. Or

  fear, or whatever it was."

  Moro put a hand to his forehead in what seemed to Brunetti an

  artificial gesture. "My report?" he finally asked.

  "Yes. About military procurement."

  Moro took his hand away. There is no report, Commissario. At least

  not about the Army or procurement or whatever it is they're afraid I've

  done. I abandoned that when they shot my wife."

  Brunetti was amazed to hear Moro speak so calmly, as though it were a

  truth universally acknowledged that his wife had been shot

  deliberately.

  The doctor went on. The started doing research on their spending and

  where the money went as soon as I was appointed to the committee. It

  was obvious where all the money was going; their arrogance makes them

  very sloppy bookkeepers, so their trail was very easy to follow, even

  for a doctor. But then they shot my wife."

  "You say that as though there's no question Brunetti said.

  Moro looked across at him and said in a cold voice. There's no

  question. I was called even before she reached the hospital. And so I

  agreed to abandon my research. The suggestion was made at the time

  that I retire from politics. And I did. I obeyed them,

  Commissario."

  "You knew they shot her?" Brunetti asked, though he had no idea who

  'they' were, at least no idea so clear that a specific name could be

  attached.

  "Of course," Moro said, his voice slipping back towards sarcasm. T'd

  done at least that much research."

  "But then why arrange the separation from your wife?" Brunetti

  asked.

  To be sure they left her alone."

  "And your daughter?" Brunetti asked with sudden curi
osity.

  "In a safe place was the only answer Moro was willing to provide.

  Then why put your son there, at the Academy?" Brunetti asked, but as

  he did it came to him that perhaps Moro had thought it would be best to

  hide the boy in plain sight. The people who shot his wife might think

  twice about creating bad publicity for the Academy; or perhaps he had

  hoped to fool them.

  Moro's face moved in something that might once have been a smile.

  "Because I couldn't stop him, Commissario. It was the greatest failure

  of my life that Ernesto wanted to be a soldier. But that's all he ever

  wanted to be, ever since he was a little boy. And nothing I could ever

  do or say could change it."

  "But why would they kill him?" Brunetti asked.

  When Moro eventually spoke, Brunetti had the sense that he was

  relieved, at long last, to be able to talk about this. "Because they

  are stupid and didn't believe that it was so easy to stop me. That I

  was a coward and wouldn't oppose them." He sat thinking for a long

  time and added, "Or perhaps Ernesto was less of a coward than I am. He